The Dragon and the Wolf
by KTHRN
Summary: The story of how the Hound is made one of Daenerys Targaryen's two dragon riders and goes into war as an ally of the North. Sansa is locked up in the Eyrie, thinking him dead as Brienne and Jaime fight to free her. Arya rides with the Dorthraki as Jon finally abandons his post at the Night's Watch to seek Bran.


"Uncle Benjen!", he exclaimed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his attempt to reach the older man, a fit of boyish excitement overcoming his normally stoic demeanor.

For weeks he'd been leading a group of Brothers in the wild beyond the wall and yet there had been no sign of the white walkers. Had it not been for the wildlings attacking and bringing giants to the gates beneath the wall, his brothers in black would have been sceptic indeed. The cold bit into their skin, even through their thick cloaks lined with furs.

As a boy he adored his uncle and he had to fight back his dissapointment when he met his gaze, more than old age reflected in the weariness of Benjen Stark's eyes.

"Have you seen your brother?"

The question puzzled Jon, annoyance at being greeted so coldly overcoming his urge to glance around at his sworn brothers. "Have I seen who?", he asked rather petulantly.

"Brandon, of course."

* * *

She awoke with tears staining her cheeks. She wept and, for a moment, she was Sansa Stark, heir to the North.

Then it was Alayne the bastard born who wiped her cheeks and dressed to meet with her father and break her fast.

The days at the Eyrie were getting shorter, darker, colder. Sweetrobin was getting sicker, faster, at Petyr's approval. She found herself unable to sleep for long, fearing for the paranoid child who, above all, resembled his mother.

She also feared for herself, the memory of her "father" kissing her in the courtyard haunted her nightmares. It wasn't the only kiss that followed her into sleep. Memories of a different mouth, rough yet gentle, had her sobbing into her pillow in the wee hours of the night.

Was it fear, as well, that drove her to tears every time she dreamt of Sandor Clegane? She wondered, greeting Petyr with the customary kiss of good morning on his cheek.

The first time he forced her to do it she felt the bile rising in her throat. "They will suspect", he hissed in her ear. After a few weeks she found herself not caring anymore, at least untill she was in the safety of her own chambers. There she poured out the grief that was in her heart, onto the thick, lavish paper her supposed father had gifted her with. She wrote of many things: the towers of Winterfell, covered in fresh snow. How her mother would send away her handmaidens to brush her long hair in the morning. The way the Hound had breathed on her lips and snarled his wicked command for a song.

It were songs that she wrote, most of all.

* * *

She was a servant daughter of lesser Targaryens, made even less when the mad king had punished her for stealing food from the kitchens. Still she bore the mark: two of her front teeth were missing in her awful, ugly face. Streaks of grey already lined her pale, yellow hair, clashing with her mismatched eyes and falling over her crooked back, the signs of inbreeding marring her body.

She had hated the king and celibrated his death by the hands of the famed kingslayer, as strongly as she adored Rheagar Targaryen whom she served from that day onward, still only a little girl. With great zest she poured wine in his cup, served him his meals and even played her flute at his request. Her chest would tighten with envy each time she saw him with his wife.

However, she knew she was to bear the true title of Targaryen royalty; she knew fire cannot harm a dragon.

She also knew how to fight, having have fended for herself ever since she escaped from that horrible battle. A battle that led her to seek the last worthy Targaryen: Rheagar's son and heir. She would surely marry him and rule the seven kingdoms one day. Her quest led her far, far north, sneaking under the wall one fatefull evening and into the savage winter beyond.

She despised the cold, preferring the heat of scolding waters and blazing fires. On that night she saw a young man, dressed all in black, by the name of Benjen. She innerly remarked on his strange resemblance to the lover of her beloved Rheagar, but payed it no heed as she travelled on. This was not the only odd brush in with the Starks, as there would be many more in the years to come.

One such meeting of chance ocurred when a young, crippled boy and his entourage happened upon her cottage in the dark, frozen woods. They were fleeing from white walkers, which she fought with the fire from her hearth.

It soon became clear to her that this was no mere coincedence: it was destiny that drove the young Stark boy to her and led her to begin her journey anew to the land of her childhood memories: they were headed to King's Landing.

Notes:

In need of a beta, English is not my first language!


End file.
